


Lost and Found

by jaradel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, M/M, No Mary, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:12:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's honestly not sure what's worse, right now - being where he is, the beaten kidnap victim, or being where Sherlock is, trying to rescue him before it's too late. Unwillingly his mind offers up the image of Sherlock in a video message, tied to a chair, bruised and bloodied. John squeezes his eyes shut to hold back tears. <em>No</em>, he decides. <em>That would be so much worse.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic inspired by [this post](http://msaliddell.tumblr.com/post/85722706725/martinfreeman-john-getting-kidnapped-and) on Tumblr. Post-S3, post-Mary, she's gone and I don't care. Yes, this is how I'm dealing with series 3, by writing fics set in the future where John and Sherlock have gotten their heads out of their (own) arses and finally become a couple.
> 
> Unbeta'ed, all mistakes are mine. Just a quick thing I dashed off today when I should have been working.

          In all fairness, it's not the worst situation John Watson's found himself in over the course of his life. Before he met Sherlock, he'd have said that the worst situation was when he was shot in Afghanistan. Now, he'd say it was watching Sherlock plummet to an apparent (and, he knows now, faked) death from the roof of St. Bart's. Though, finding out his now ex-wife was lying to him the entire time they were together, about everything - her past, her career, the father of her baby - does rank a pretty close second.

          No, being kidnapped by a couple of thugs working for the largest heroin network in London and beaten to within an inch of his life really isn't that bad, he decides, though every cell in his body aches terribly. He's tied to a straight-backed wooden chair with a fair amount of paracord, sturdy stuff that won't snap without the aid of a sharp knife. The dirty rag tied around his mouth is sopping wet with his own saliva, and the filthiness of it has John on the edge of vomiting, which in turn strains his already well-abused abdominal muscles. So it's not the worst situation he's ever been in, but he certainly has seen better days.

          They've left him alone in the back of this abandoned warehouse, and the cliché-ness of the whole situation would have John laughing if he weren't in so much pain. He doesn't know how long he's been here - could be hours, could be days for all he knows. The kidnappers have been video-recording their 'sessions' with him, and John doesn't need to be told why. It's a warning - if Sherlock doesn't drop the case, John's a dead man. The thought of what it would be like if their roles were reversed fills the back of his mouth with the rancid tang of bile, and John shakes his head as if to get rid of the unwanted image. He's honestly not sure what's worse, right now - being where he is, the beaten kidnap victim, or being where Sherlock is, trying to rescue him before it's too late. Unwillingly his mind offers up the image of Sherlock in a video message, tied to a chair, bruised and bloodied. John squeezes his eyes shut to hold back tears. _No_ , he decides. _That would be so much worse._

          Just then all hell breaks loose. John hears the sound of metal doors being forced open, raised voices, and gunfire. He tries to shout past the gag in his mouth, but his muffled cries are lost in the cacophony at the front of the warehouse. Then, one particular voice cuts through the commotion - a panicked baritone shouting his name, getting louder.

          'John! JOHN! _JOHN!!_ '

          John can do nothing but wait. He tries to shift the chair, hoping the wooden legs will scrape against the concrete and make a loud enough noise, but it's no use; he's far too weak. He sits, still trying to shout around the gag, his heart beating frantically.

          And then John sees the most beautiful sight in the world, as Sherlock rounds a stack of pallets and races toward him, falling to his knees before him.

          'John, I'm so sorry, I was stupid and it took me too long to get here, please forgive me,' Sherlock babbles, his long fingers scrabbling over the paracord around John's arms, torso, and legs.

          ' _Mmmph - mmf,_ ' is all John can manage through the gag. Sherlock looks up then, red-rimmed eyes shining with unshed tears, and sees the gag. John watches Sherlock's bottom lip tremble almost imperceptibly as gentle hands tug the dirty cloth out of John's mouth to hang limply around his neck. John breathes in, and stretches his mouth and jaw to work out the stiffness.

          'It's okay, Sherlock, I knew you'd find me,' John says, his voice gravelly from the strain of shouting.

          Sherlock drops his gaze, ashamed, as he scuttles around John, working frantically at the knots. John can feel Sherlock's hands shaking. 'No it's not, I was too proud to give up the case, and too slow to find you, and you almost _died_ , John, it was like that damned bonfire all over again, the threat of a sniper blowing your brains out, the Semtex vest--'

          'Sherlock.' John can't stop the tears of relief streaking his grimy cheeks, but his voice remains calm. He feels Sherlock's hands still. 'Come here where I can see you.'

          Sherlock moves in front of John, still on his knees in a supplicant pose, head bowed and hands folded in his lap.

          'Look at me.'

          Sherlock looks up then, and cerulean eyes meet navy. John says nothing; with Sherlock no words are needed. Sherlock studies John's face, reading what he doesn't need to say. _It's alright, love. I knew you'd come for me. I know how important this case is to you, and I know why you didn't let it go. You found me, and that is the most important part._

          Sherlock scoots forward on his knees, dragging the expensive fabric of his bespoke trousers against an unforgiving floor, and leans forward, wrapping his arms around John and the chair, his head resting on John's chest as he sobs in relief. John can do nothing in this position except nuzzle and kiss the top of Sherlock's head, and continue to whisper soft words of comfort. 'Shhh, it's okay, it'll be alright. Couple of days of rest and I'll be good as new. You're not getting rid of me that easily.'

          Sherlock huffs out a chuckle through his sobs. 'Never, my John. I'd be lost without my blogger.'

          'And I without my detective. We're quite a pair, you and I,' John whispers fondly.

          Sherlock looks up, nodding, his pale face now blotchy red from crying. 'Just the two of us-'

          'Against the rest of the world,' John finishes with him, and is rewarded with a watery smile from Sherlock. 'Now, how about getting me out of this chair, and we can go home, hmmm? Don't you have a knife in that coat of yours?'

          'Hmmm? _Oh!_ ' Sherlock says, springing backward on his heels. He fishes around in his coat pockets and comes up with a folding knife. Clicking it open one-handed, he makes quick work of the paracord and finally John is free, standing on wobbly legs.

          Before he can do anything, John is wrapped up in Sherlock's arms. He breathes a sigh of relief against Sherlock's neck, and notes with a small chuckle that he's supporting Sherlock as much as he's being supported by him. John wriggles his arms out of Sherlock's nearly vise-like grip and snakes them around his waist underneath the ever-present coat, giving comfort as much as he's receiving it.

          They are still standing like that when Lestrade rounds the corner. 'Alright, John?' he asks gruffly.

          Reluctantly John peels himself away from Sherlock, though Sherlock keeps a steadying arm around John's shoulders. 'Yeah, 'm fine. Nick of time as always,' he adds, inclining his head toward Sherlock.

          Greg smiles, but John can see the worry etched in his face. 'You look like you went twelve rounds with Michael Bisping,' he says, trying and failing to make a joke to lighten the mood.

          'Who the hell is Michael Bisping?' Sherlock asks, his nose scrunched in a mixture of confusion and exasperation.

          John grins. 'MMA fighter, top-ranked in the UK...' He trails off when he sees that Sherlock still looks confused. 'Never mind, I'll explain later.' He turns his attention to Greg. 'I've certainly been better, but right now all I want is to go home.'

          They follow the detective inspector out of the warehouse slowly, Sherlock's arm around John's waist to support him. Outside, a paramedic insists on examining John, and Sherlock stands close by, his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. John answers the medic's questions while she wraps a bandage around his bruised torso, but keeps his eyes on Sherlock. _He looks lost,_   John thinks. _But would I look any different, if our roles were reversed?_

          The paramedic finishes her triage and makes her case for John to go to A&E for further examination, but John refuses. 'Doctors,' she mutters under her breath as she packs up her kit. John shrugs his button-down shirt back on, buttoning it slowly with sore fingers. He looks sadly at his jumper, which may not be salvageable. He could have used the extra layer. The night is chilly, and he doesn't have his coat, the kidnappers having stripped him of it before tying him to the chair.

          'Looking for this?'

          John finishes tucking in his shirt and looks up. Sherlock is holding John's well-worn shooting jacket. 'Where did you find it?' he asked.

          Sherlock helps John into his coat. 'I didn't. One of Lestrade's officers found it when they raided the warehouse. I wasn't about to leave you unsupervised.' Sherlock's hands smooth the shoulders of John's coat, and John turns around.

          'I'm _fine_ , Sherlock. Or I will be. I'm not an invalid,' he says sternly.

          'I didn't mean like that,' Sherlock snaps, then immediately his expression softens. 'I'm always running off, trusting you'll be right behind me. Not stopping to _make sure_   that you are. And then something like this happens. Too many times. I won't let it happen again.'

          John can tell from Sherlock's stilted speech that he's still on the edge of panic. 'Hey,' he says, reaching up to caress Sherlock's cheek and turn his head to face him. 'We can't live in each other's pockets. There will always be times, however brief, when we're out of each other's sight. The Work - it's dangerous, right? That's why we love it. That's why we _do_   it. So this _will_   happen again, to one or the other of us.'

          'I can't lose you,' Sherlock says, his voice a choked whisper.

          'I will always be with you, love.' John places his hand over Sherlock's heart, and Sherlock immediately covers it with his own. 'No matter what. And I will always find you, and you will always find me. That's a promise.'

          Sherlock nods, and John can see that, while he's still agitated, he is fractionally calmer than he was before. 'Now then. I don't know about you, but a hot shower, food, tea, and some ibuprofen sound awfully good right now, and we're not going to find those things here.'

          'Home, then,' Sherlock says, removing his hand from John's and wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

          'Yes, home.'


End file.
